Right Behind You
by phantomphan2000
Summary: With Bobby's condition and Sam's undying faith that everything will turn out okay, Dean feels helpless as he realizes he's watching everyone slowly die around him. Set in 7x10, AU
1. Call To No One

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural**_**.**

**Call To No One**

He wonders for the millionth how it came to this.

The scene plays like a butchered song on replay in his mind, and he can't stop the continuous loop, not even during the few hours' sleep he somehow gets. But none of it makes any sense. Bobby—he'd _been_ there, right behind them, mere seconds before, fighting off the seemingly–invincible Leviathans. Armed. And perfectly intact. Hell, in better shape than any guy his age. Hopped in the van. Gunshots. Sped off with tires squealing, just in the nick of time.

He covers his face in his hands, feeling useless, runs them through his hair as he stares at the blurry white–tiled floor, suddenly having a desire to yank it all out. Dean can't believe he didn't notice. Bobby, the man who he looked to as a father, shot. In the head, no less.

The chances of surviving that. . . . He doesn't want to know or even think about it. But how can he not? What else does he have left to live for besides Sam? The world always seems to be in the toilet, has been for the past three years, probably will be for some time. Lost some good hunters and friends along the way. And, to be honest, he's tired of being the only guinea pig up for the job no one else wants, hell, even _knows_ about.

Sam's a different story. He has so much faith and belief that everything will turn out to be alright. And if it doesn't . . . well, he'll cross that bridge when they come to it. But Dean can't quite get behind his brother on this one. It's not easy to be a Winchester, and with their luck, he finds himself wondering how they're both still even topside.

The doctors say it's likely Bobby won't live, though Sam swears he had a pulse in the van; Dean remembers feeling a fluttering heartbeat momentarily, but not a minute of the drive to the hospital. He just knows he's sitting here now, waiting, hoping for any news on the older hunter's condition.

He looks at the white walls, floors, uniforms . . . all of it blends together. One big white _blur_. He can't distinguish one thing from another. It's all one in the same.

Lids fall over hazel eyes, his fingers pressed to the corners, fighting the images his mind conjures and the building moisture.

_"Don't you dare die on me, Bobby!"_

God, he just wants it to end.

When he looks up again, Sam is bent over in his chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped tight, eyes shut in concentration. Dean's never seen his brother pray so desperately before. He tries to mimic the position—has several times—but his own hands seem to repel each other.

His stomach churns nervously, flopping around in his gut. And he can't sit here any longer.

Sam looks up as he stands. "Where're you going?"

"Bathroom," he mumbles hoarsely.

He's out of breath and gasping for air as he stumbles through the door. The room starts to spin, but he clutches the door handle for support, fumbling to lock the world away. He practically falls into one of the sinks, catching a glimpse of his pale reflection in the mirror. Dean twists the knob and brings cool water to his mouth and face.

Only when the room decides to right itself does he realize he's alone. _Really_ alone. With Sam's unbreakable faith and Death knocking on Bobby's door. . . .

Pulling out his phone. A short scroll down and he hears the familiar ring. Then—

_"You've reached the voicemail of_—beep—_I don't understand. Why . . . why do you want me to say my name?"_

The corners of his mouth lift slightly at the gravelly voice, the sound of a few buttons being pressed out of confusion. A similar beep follows.

He swallows hard.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says. "It's me." He tries to clear his throat, which feels so dry it's as if he's been dehydrated for days. "Look, uh . . . Bobby's hurt pretty bad down here in the ER, and Sam's going crazy, you know, praying for some kinda miracle and, well, I don't know . . . I guess you were the first nerd angel I thought of."

He gives a weak, unconvincing laugh that sounds foreign to his own ears. Who is he kidding? His friend is dead, took a swan dive into a goddamn river and never resurfaced, will never hear this message. He's talking to no one, all alone in the men's room. It's also hard to look over the fact that Sam or Bobby would never look at him the same if they knew what he was doing.

Probably earn him a one–way ticket to the psych ward.

"It's been real hard since your synchronized swimming class," Dean continues, trying to smile despite the large lump welling up in his throat. "Damn Leviathans all over the place. Sodium Borate slows 'em down, but somehow . . ." He sweeps a hand over his face. "One got to Bobby," he practically whispers.

He pauses. Half–expecting a mumbled "I'm sorry, Dean" after a few seconds' silence. But of course there's nothing.

"This whole thing's gone screwy, man. We're verging on apocalypse number three now, and I just . . . I don't know what I'm _doing_ anymore, Cas." He blinks, and a tear spills over. "I keep waiting to wake up, you know? See you and Sam and Bobby. . . . Back when saving the world wasn't so damn impossible."

Dean's thumb passes under his left eye, and he inhales sharply once, waiting again for a response.

"If you ever get your ass back to earth, do us all a favor and pick up a damn phone, would ya?"

There's a soft knock, a jiggle of the door handle, and Sam's calling him from outside.

"Oh, and Cas—you really need a new voicemail message, dude. This one sucks. Big time."

Dean Winchester flips the cell phone shut and leans his head back against the wall. It's only after he's sure Sam has gone that he slips out through the small window and ventures out into the darkness.

* * *

><p><strong>One chapter left. What do you think?<strong>


	2. Batman and Robin

**A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, put this on story alert or in their favorites. I truly appreciate it! :) And I also apologize for any mistakes in this, I didn't really have time to edit much.**

**Also, at this point, I'd say tissues are a necessity. **

_**Disclaimer: Anything Supernatural does not belong to me.**_

**Batman and Robin**

Sam hesitates.

Because—pressing his ear up to the door—he can hear his brother soft voice from inside, mumbling. The short string of words doesn't sound like Latin or any other foreign language he knows.

So Dean can't be performing any spell or ritual. Sam lets relief wash over him while he continues to listen.

Nothing.

He leans away, lingering for a moment more before deciding to return to his silent vigil outside Bobby's room. Sam can't be sure why Dean would lock him out, other than the simple fact that his older brother needs to be alone, prepare himself for what might be coming.

And Sam sure as hell can respect that.

* * *

><p><em>602<em>.

It's still dark when he reaches the storage unit, though the full moon provides decent light. If his hands would quit shaking, he might be able to fit the damn key in the lock.

Or take the time to be a little freaked by the unnatural stillness of the night.

Dean didn't waste time getting to the parking lot and speeding away in the van. Of course, he forced himself to keep his eyes on the road and not the back seat. Because he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep a firm grip on his sanity.

He guessed that time was almost up.

Inside, his baby awaits. Sleek and black and one with the darkness. Dean steps up to the driver's side as if in a dream. Slips into the seat molded to the shape of him. He grips the wheel, foot instinctively finding the gas, hand reaching for the tape poking out of place. . . .

It feels like forever since he's experienced this kind of luxury.

Dean sighs. What he would give to be out on the road again, with Sam riding shotgun, Bobby in the backseat. And—

He blinks several times to make sure his eyes aren't deceiving him; even adjusts the rearview mirror to be sure . . . yet those same crystal orbs are still boring into his.

Dean whips around in his seat, but he's alone in the Impala. He exhales in confusion, then laughs shakily. What was he thinking? That it was _real_? Yeah, right. Another pipe dream conjured by his overactive imagination.

_Man_, does he need sleep.

Knowing he can't delay this any longer, Dean leaves the safety of his car and circles around to the trunk.

The lighter in his pocket suddenly seems to weigh ten pounds.

* * *

><p>It's truly amazing how little dry underbrush he can find in the nearby woods. Good thing he brought along that gas can.<p>

_Just in case._

Dean stumbles upon a small clearing he thinks will suffice after a few minutes' walk. Sure, it's in the middle of nowhere, and yeah, it probably wouldn't mean much if the stupid son–of–a–bitch were here, but the gesture's gotta count for something, right?

He picks a spot right in the center. Then sets down the gas can and delicately pulls out the folded material.

Dean can't quite bring himself to unwrap it, but lays it gently on the ground. He douses it in gasoline and finally produces the lighter.

If he had more time, maybe Dean could've given him a proper send–off, one more sincere. But, then again, that's not really his style to begin with, never has been.

Dean thinks this might be the hardest decision he's ever had to make. Maybe it shouldn't be, but when have things ever been clear as day before now? When did he _ever_ get the easy way out?

_It's just a stupid coat. He probably never liked the dumb thing, anyway. _

But it had suited him.

Maybe _making_ the decision hadn't been the hard part. Maybe . . . maybe it was knowing he'd treated the guy like nothing but a sidekick, like Robin to his Batman. Always there to help Dean out, always willing to do whatever it took to save the world.

Like robbing Purgatory of those souls.

Like stealing God's title.

Like becoming a monster.

All because he thought it was the right thing to do, because there were no other viable options left that made sense.

And, in that respect, he'd been more like Superman than a sidekick.

_"Has anyone but your closest kin ever done more for you?"_

Dean flips open the lighter and stares into the flame, realizing he forgave him the second he died. For Sam's broken wall, for unleashing the Leviathan—for everything. In a heartbeat. Just like that. Over. Done. No going back.

He closes his eyes, fighting the familiar sting behind the lids, and whispers, "I'm sorry, Cas." The grip on the lighter loosens.

When Dean opens his eyes, that tan trench coat is alight. He watches the firelight dance across the fabric until all that remains is ashes. _Ashes to ashes,_ he thinks with a half–smile, almost hearing the angel's deadpan tone in the words.

As he turns to leave, a rustling sound reaches him from the surrounding ring of trees, but he dismisses it and heads back to storage unit with an empty gas can.

He doesn't notice the dark figure that emerges from its hiding place behind a tree and approaches the dying fire.

* * *

><p>Only when Dean slips back into the men's room and out the door does he wonder how long it will be before Sam notices the coat is missing.<p>

* * *

><p><em>AN 2: If anyone was wondering what significance __**602**__ has, I chose the number because in Season 6 episode 2 Dean uncovers the Impala for the first time in a year. I thought it kinda fit with this. __**Please R&R!**_


	3. Over My Head

**A/N: Thanks so much for all the support! It's really made a difference, seeing as I wasn't going to continue this before and just leave it as a two-shot. I did a little research for this one, so please don't shoot if I get a any medical terms or procedures wrong. I'm not a doctor for a reason.**

_**Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Eric Kripke. I am not making any profit from this.**_

**Over My Head**

Wind breaks night's deadly silence, reacting in sync with the dark figure's somber stride to the remnants of a Winchester's dying blaze. It whispers through the leaves overhead, moonlight shimmering across the smooth surfaces in a soundless, harmonic masquerade. Encompassing the visitor with an unnatural warmth such as the trench coat might have provided, had it not been left to burn. The stranger watches several multi–colored leaves plant themselves in the last dancing flame, and with air fanning it, an angry fire erases all beauty as the ugly things curl up into fragile imitations of nature.

She follows the path Dean took. When her booted foot reaches the edge of asphalt, a dark van pulls away to blend and disappear into the surrounding darkness.

* * *

><p>He hates the unfamiliarity. The wheel, the seat, the brake—none of it comes close. Cheap and lousy and nothing like what he sometimes took for granted all those years ago when he first started hunting.<p>

When the people he loved most were still alive. All but one.

Dean pulled the tape from his jacket and reached over to insert it. That's when he discovered the miniscule slot for CDs.

Irritated at being in this situation in the first place, he settles for turning on the radio.

"..._That everyone I knew was waiting on a cue, to turn and run when all I needed was the truth..."_

Large drops suddenly hit the windshield with stunning force, pounding so loud he can barely hear himself think, rain trying to break through the doors and glass to drench him. "Perfect," he mumbles, turning on the windshield wipers full blast. Dean almost groans when only one attempts to clear water from the vehicle.

"_...But that's how it's gotta be, it's coming down to nothing more than apathy. I'd rather run the other way than to stay and see..."_

The car swerves slightly on the road, but he manages to stay in control, ignoring the fact his heart skipped a beat. He steps on the brake and slows to a crawl, the rain sounding like hail on the roof. . . .

"_...The smoke, and who's still standing when it clears. Everyone knows I'm in over my head, over my head. Eight seconds left—_"

There's interference on the radio, scratchy and high–pitched squealing. He fumbles with the dials, trying to shut out the noise—

"_Dee. . . ._"

He frowns, peering through the rain, sure he heard something. But he can't look in the backseat, not when . . .

"_D–. . . Dean_," the radio says.

What the hell? Last time he checked, radios didn't talk.

Ever.

Dean turns the volume down, but it's still saying his name. He finally decides a crawl is better than nothing and continues on down the road towards the hospital, jumpy and on–edge, fingers wrapped tight on the wheel like he's clinging to dear life.

He's still messing with the radio when a dark shadow crosses in front of the van and vanishes into the trees on the left side of the road. Dean floors the pedal to the floor, not bothering to look back, and pulls out the gun shoved into his jeans. Man, is he extremely glad he chose to get that anti–possession tattoo.

'Cause he's pretty sure that was a demon.

* * *

><p>Of course, Sam is there. Waiting for him. As always.<p>

"Hey," he says, standing to get a better look at his older brother. "Uh . . . you okay?"

Dean waves him away and sits down next to Big Bird, zipping his jacket nearly all the way up to his chin to hide the wet spots on his shirt. "Fine, Sam, I'm fine. 'S nothing I can't handle." He glances anxiously into the room across the hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of Bobby, a glimpse of _anything _to put his mind at rest. His little drive down a very soggy memory lane has cost him some valuable time here, where Bobby needed him. Just as he's about to ask how the older hunter's doing, Sam interrupts him.

"Okay, so you're . . . fine." He nods once, as if accepting that fact. "Just, um, there any reason you spent three hours in the men's room?"

_Dammit._ Three hours? Had it really been _that long_? But what with the rain and the freaky demon–crossing, he probably shouldn't seem so surprised.

"Stomach ache," Dean replies, running a hand back and forth slowly across his midsection. "Rather not talk about it just now, if you don't mind." Dean hides his face in his hands, hoping the charade is believable enough to keep Sam off his case.

At least for now.

Sam has to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from speaking. So Dean doesn't want to talk or get anything off his chest. _That_ he's used to. But lying? Not so much. Sam recognizes all the signs, starting with the big cover up story. Dude, seriously? A _stomach ache_? If you're gonna lie, at least be smart about it. Don't use the lamest excuse in the book.

Sure, his big brother's lied to him before. But only when he's hiding something, keeping secrets to keep Sam safe. Whatever. His tone's different now, though . . . off. Like he's seen a damn ghost; not like it usually is when he thinks he's got everything under control.

Like he's distracted.

By something other than Bobby's condition.

Sam sighs and gets up again, this time to visit the vending machine at the end of the hall. Taking out his wallet and depositing a bill in the slot, he figures Dean will tell him what's up when he's ready.

_It's only a matter of time._

* * *

><p>"Bobby Singer?"<p>

Sam hurriedly crumples the chip bag and tosses it in the nearby trash can. He shakes Dean awake, who starts violently once and stops snoring. They're both on their feet by the time the nurse reaches them.

Her eyebrows raise slightly. "Are you his . . . ?"

"Nephews," Sam supplies.

Dean peers around her to see the door to Bobby's room has been shut. "Um, do you mind if we, maybe, went to see him? I promise we won't cause any trouble," he adds when he sees her expression change.

The nurse presses her lips together. "I'm afraid I have some bad news about your uncle." She sighs, truly hating this part of the job. "We believe the bullet has caused some swelling—"

"Then take the damn thing out!" Dean interrupts.

Sam shoots him a look, but the nurse only looks at him with pity in her eyes. "Operating at this point could potentially cause more harm, as we can't pinpoint where it's been lodged—"

"So what _can_ you do?" Dean asks, jumping right in again.

Sam slyly elbows him in the rib. _Cool it, Dean._

She sighs. "He's gone into a coma. The best thing for him right now is to be surrounded by his family."

Sam nods, remembering he read somewhere that talking to comatose patients can, more often than not, help improve their condition. "Thank you."

The nurse gives them a small smile and turns to walk down the hall to another room. Dean immediately steps toward the door, and he can't help but think it's the only barrier separating them from their father figure.

Sam catches him by the shoulder.

"Dean—"

But he shrugs out of his brother's grasp. Because he knows what's coming. Because Sam is going to stand there and tell him to deal with everything he's feeling, to _talk about it_. And, no offense to his brother, but that's just not him. He _can't_ talk about it, because then he'd have to admit Bobby was going to die. And he couldn't do that, not _now_, not when there was still a chance the older hunter might turn out to be just fine.

He really would rather walk away than face the music. Because Dean is done losing the people he loves, especially when it's directly in response to his own actions. When _he_ causes someone's life to end.

The hell if he's gonna let Bobby die tonight. Or ever. He looks up at the ceiling, wondering if the angels in Heaven can hear his thoughts.

_This ends, here and now._

* * *

><p>They aren't allowed to visit for long. Back in the hallway before Dean gets a chance to promise Bobby that he'll hunt down Dick Roman and take down as many Leviathans as he can before they get to him.<p>

Sam's expression is careful, cloaking his face in a mask similar to the one Dean always wears in times like this. He doesn't let on that he knows what Dean is planning to do. But Sam can still see it written all over his older brother's face, particularly in his green eyes and in the way his jaw clenches whenever a nurse or doctor walks by.

Dean tries to ignore the fact that Castiel could have fixed Bobby in a second if he were still alive. He tries to ignore Sam glancing at him ten times a minute, the ringing laughter of Alistair in his head, the fact that the Colt might be the only thing out there that can kill Leviathans.

He really tries.

Sam tries to ignore Lucifer's voice in his head, mocking him. He tries to ignore how long they have to wait for news, how Dean can't sit still, how his own hands haven't stopped shaking since they got here. He tries to ignore the plan silently forming in his own head, one that could get all of them out of here.

He really tries.

_They_ really try.

But, sometimes, even that's not good enough.


	4. All I Want For Christmas

**A/N: Did I ever mention the idea for this story popped into my head while listening to James Durbin's song Right Behind You? ****Any and all reviews are welcome! :)**

_**Disclaimer: Supernatural will never be mine, sadly.**_

_"You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain." ~Harvey Dent, The Dark Knight_

**All I Want For Christmas**

Bobby remains in a coma for the next few days.

Dean and Sam stand by faithfully, waiting for him to wake, though they both know there's a chance he might never see them again. Sleeping, sitting, standing, and even eating crappy hospital food that isn't really food to pass the time, to keep the older hunter company. Anything except talking, which they've both silently agreed not to do. Sam, a little grudgingly, but only because of Dean's unrelenting insistence.

Sam spends most of his time reading books and old magazines at Bobby's bedside, causing him to quickly tire of his own voice. He catches himself glancing up every few seconds, as if he expects there to be some kind of reaction to the meaningless words; Sam hasn't let his hope diminish completely, not like Dean, who seems distant and barely half–alive. Dean only paces back and forth on the same patch of floor, hand covering his mouth, clearly deep in thought, gaze always fixed on a spot just in front of his feet.

Sam wonders if the white tiles wear easily.

It's not exactly the fact that Dean refuses to speak that disturbs him—it's the fact that he refuses to speak specifically _to_ him. His little brother. That's what he's here for, right? To make things easier on Dean, the guy who never gets a break from worrying about everyone but himself. The most selfless person Sam knows. Who sacrifices everything for a family that seems destined to fall apart, no matter how many times they hull themselves out of the mud and get back in the game.

The same story every damn time. _You'd think something good would've happened by now. Hell, it's been _years _since we've really been happy. Just this once, something good for my brother. Just this one thing._ He sighs and then almost snorts, realizing anyone who listened to the thoughts would assume he's telling Santa what he wants for Christmas this year.

Sounds like something Dean would say.

Dean may think he's alone and that no one understands what he's going through, but Sam knows his older sibling is up to something, devising a plan. One that might save them all.

Or get himself killed.

* * *

><p>Dean takes the seemingly–permanent job of running errands.<p>

How much like a soccer mom he's becoming. Even his means of transportation is a big red flag, always there to remind him what he has lost the privilege to drive.

Only, his luck doesn't have that kind of range.

Because Sam keeps him on a leash, ready to yank him back if he happens to stray too far. Hell, he can't even leave the building to get some fresh air without the gigantic form of his sasquatch brother looming over him like he's on suicide watch. Like Dean would ever bother with that—he'd just end up earth–bound (_again_) somehow; and it's not like it'd make any difference.

Just another big mess to clean up later, when the fourth apocalypse would darken his doorstep.

Besides, as long as Bobby's heart was still beating, Dean was going to fight. He'd find some way to track down every last Leviathan, try every method he knew or came across in those old books until they finally fell. Whatever it took.

Sam wouldn't approve of this plan, Dean had known that from the start. Maybe he already suspected something was up. Either way, it didn't matter. Dean had to do this on his own, without the help of his younger brother. Leaving Bobby to fend for himself was simply not an option—especially a _comatose_ Bobby; someone had to stay behind and keep watch for those freaky monsters from Purgatory that bled black goo.

Dean believed Sam was more than ready for the job. After all, every time he turns around, Big Foot is usually there.

He wants so many things, and yet not enough. Everywhere Dean turns, he sees faces of the people he's lost—Ellen, Jo, Ash, Dad . . . _Cas_. Right here, next to him, see–through and so close Dean can almost feel the dead angel's breath ghosting across his skin. . . .

He bolts for the men's room.

* * *

><p>"<em>Why . . . why do you want me to say my name<em>?"

Dean swallows hard as his right hand balls into a fist, his left nearly crushing the phone pressed to his ear into a million pieces. Teeth clenched tight, mouth a firm line, stomach churning like it would if he were on a plane right now. The beep doesn't come _nearly_ as quickly as it should.

And then he's talking so fast that he can barely think the words before they're out.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, screwing with my head like that?" he growls angrily into the mouthpiece. "When I said _don't ever change_, I meant it, you stupid son–of–a–bitch, but that doesn't give you the right to _haunt my ass_!" Dean exhales heavily in frustration, bringing a hand to rest on top of his head. His fingers twitch, and he has that sudden urge to rip every hair out by the roots again, but maintains a flimsy hold on his waning sanity.

But, really, it's only a matter of time before the well runs dry.

"Just—stay the hell away, all right? Lose my number. And ignore my last message."

The sharp snap of the phone closing echoes around the room with an air of finality. His fist makes contact with one of the mirrors, which shatters instantly.

* * *

><p>The Winchesters are both asleep when she slips into the room, conveniently unnoticed. A clock on the wall reads midnight, though there is little meaning in that fact—it's importance is feeble in the present.<p>

But, for the past, time is everything. Time during which grave mistakes were made. Time that some come to regret in their final years on earth and even after death.

Time that can be erased.

Dean. So much heartache, so much pain and worry and love and hate. All yearning to be released, only to be denied, rejected and pushed away. Ignored. A self–sacrificing and doomed man always trying to do what he feels is right. Always trying to save the ones he loves instead of caring for himself. Trying to find purpose in a life he no longer thinks is worth living for, even when his adopted father and younger brother need him most. A man who is tired of fighting, and tired of running. And running out of options.

He just wants it to end.

Sam. Wise beyond his years, yet still innocent in some ways. Waking every morning to the thought that today will be better, that they can find a way to make it so. He may still see Lucifer when he brushes his teeth, he may still have nightmares during the day when he knows he's awake, but he doesn't run and hide anymore. He fights the images until they dissipate, heaving a sigh of relief that he proved it was all an illusion. Dean keeps him safe, and Bobby keeps him sane. Without either, he knows he is nothing, can _do_ nothing.

He just wants things to be the way they were before.

Bobby. Struggling to stay alive, fighting for his life, to get back to Sam and Dean—_his sons_. His boys. The family he never got to have with Karen. Falling to pieces without him there to tell them what idjits they are for sticking around so long.

He loves them like they're his own.

Claire Novak knows these things, just as Castiel knows them. His knowledge has become hers to share, as hers has in return. They are one in the same.

She wishes he wouldn't do this, but even she sees no other way out. She allows him to take control of her movements, her body, fitting comfortably like his burned trench coat, like her father once did before her. Claire holds onto the memory of him, onto the hope of seeing him again, and she thinks this might be the reason she gave her consent to the angel, to be his vessel for a second time.

In a way, he feels regret because he caused Dean to be miserable, Sam's faith in his brother to trickle away, and Bobby to nearly die. _He_ did all these things, not the Leviathans.

In another, he feels hope. Maybe the two boys destined for terrible greatness will be able to lead a normal life, one they've both wished for in their time as hunters. Maybe not a simple, care–free existence, but far better than the harsh one they know now.

He tells himself—and Claire—this is best. For them all.

Castiel gently presses two fingers to each forehead, one–by–one, until every memory containing him fades into nothingness. Passing through the doorway feels like abandonment of the good friends that will not remember him when they next wake.

Just like they abandoned him.

His powers seem much weaker than before, he can feel it. But he must make sure they fulfill their purpose, and for that, only time will tell.


	5. Give and Take

**A/N: This update is long overdue. If you have a minute, let me know what you think. Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays! :)**

_**Disclaimer: I don't own SPN or its characters. **_

_Half the time the world is ending_

_Truth is I am done pretending_

_I never thought that I _

_Had any more to give_

_You're pushing me so far_

_Here I am without you_

_Drink to all that we have lost_

_Mistakes we have made_

_Everything will change_

_But love remains the same_

(Love Remains The Same, Gavin Rossdale)

**Give and Take**

_Life sucks._

_You grow up scarred, having seen things most people never see, even in their worst nightmares. You get handed a job no one else will ever want, look after your little brother, be a good soldier, obey—do everything your dad tells you to do. You hunt the monsters, get used to the sight of blood, and save every soul you can. You juggle all these things in your hands. And survive, above all else._

_It seems easy at first. Maybe even fun—but no, not fun, just satisfying in an empty sort of way. Like you're fed, but only enough to keep you moving, breathing, alive. So that you always come back for more._

_You fight for your life, for those that surround you. You don't even know most of their names. But you know who is family, who will always be your weak spot, will always be a target for the evil things that seek revenge in the night. Always hold you back when all you want is to be anywhere than where you are._

_You think maybe it's finally over when you die and go to Hell. Except it doesn't, because, well . . . it never does. You get yanked back to earth by an angel, something you thought didn't exist. This creature, after proving he is more than just a holy tax accountant, becomes your friend. Your brother._

_And so Castiel dies for you, literally explodes. Twice. Well, three times if you count swimming class._

_You realize that stupid Rachel chick was right—to a certain extent—even if you don't want to admit it._

_"I think you call him when you need something."_

_You were a jerk to the guy. A real one. Hardly treated him like a friend until you thought he might turn his back on you or explode again. You wish you had never asked Sam to go find Dad, because that is what caused so many people you've encountered to die. If you had never taken him away from Jess, if you'd left well enough alone, none of this would ever have happened and Cas wouldn't have had to die for you. Again._

_But some angel has to be watching over you. You simply don't have the kind of luck to will Bobby to wake up out of a coma; the doctors keep saying Bobby's full recovery in a matter of a few short hours is a miracle. And what other reason do you have to believe it's anything but?_

_So, yeah, life sucks most days._

_Then, when you die, someone or something brings you back, and you're right where you started—trapped in that tiny box called square one._

_You'd think, after all this time, you'd be used to it by now. But your life, your family, is all you have left, all you have to fight for. All you have to give._

_And so you fight to the last breath and go down swingin'._

_Because you are Dean Winchester._

* * *

><p>Sam can see his persistence is <em>really<em> pissing Dean off. And between all the absolute looks of rage, he can see worry plastered all over his pale face, and he knows this has slowly eaten away at his older brother through the years. He just doesn't understand why Sam won't let things _not_ be so fricked up _for one damn time_ and _let it go_.

"Look, Dean, I'm just trying to make sense of all this, okay? Really, I'm happy Bobby's alright—hell, I'm _thrilled_. It's just that . . ." Sam pauses, looking at the floor as if the right explanation will plaster itself there like a bright neon sign for him to see. "Well, I know this might sound crazy, but . . . it doesn't feel right. None of this does, man. I keep getting these, these flashes—"

Dean frowns, his eyebrows stitching together. "What, visions?"

Sam shakes his head. "No, it's more like . . . _memories_. I think," he adds as an afterthought.

The oldest brother almost rolls his eyes. "Oh, _come on_, Sam! No more swelling, no coma . . ."—Dean counts these impossibilities on his fingers—"even the damn bullet's gone." He sighs. "Just for once, this _one time_, can't you let something good happen? Haven't we given enough, suffered enough to earn this one thing? Can you give me _five freakin' minutes_ to not be miserable here?"

"Yeah," Sam says, "but—"

Dean holds up a hand. "You know what, Sam? Forget it. Okay? You can deal with this whatever way you want, whatever way makes _you_ happiest. You can hold hands with the doc and sing 'Kumbaya' around a nonexistent fire for all I care. But while you're just sitting around trying to figure out how in hell this happened"—he hooks a thumb over his shoulder—"I'll be in there with Bobby. You know, the guy who just woke up from a coma this morning?"

Sam scowls darkly as Dean turns away, steam practically bursting from his older brother's ears. He thinks for a minute Dean might slam the door to Bobby's room with a little more force than necessary, given the history of that famous roaring temper, but it closes so quietly that Sam barely hears a soft _click_.

Sam sighs, deciding it's best to let Dean cool down for a while before checking in again with Bobby. Even though he's barely gotten to say two words to the guy since he'd fought his way out of unconsciousness. Sam fully understands why Dean feels useless—hell, _he_ feels useless. But it's kind of why he always lets Dean go get the disgusting hospital food, go to the motel nearby and get a change of clothes. Because it gives him something to _do_; something to keep his mind off their suck–ish situation.

Except, now, it's slightly improved.

Really, Sam's grateful Bobby is moving around a little here and there, testing his limits with a fully intact memory. He's happy to see Dean motivated again, even if it makes his little brother the bad guy. But stuff like this has happened before. Something good comes their way, and then it's gone before they really get the chance to appreciate it. He can't help thinking this is some sick joke, that this blissfully impossible dream will end and he'll be forced to realize none of really happened. That someone's gonna pull the rug out from under him when he least expects it. Because, if Sam Winchester is being honest with himself, it's happened before.

And it's bound to happen again.

* * *

><p>Dean tries to erase any remaining traces of anger from his features as he steps quietly into the room. He even forces himself not to slam the door.<p>

Bobby is lying down when he reaches his bedside, eyes wide open, all the scary–looking tubes having been long since removed. The older hunter's face cracks into a smile when he sees him, grinning from ear to ear, which, for Dean, is an accomplishment.

"Hey, kid," he croaks a little hoarsely.

Dean allows himself a half–smile and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "See you got room service now." He nods at the tray of slimy crap they call food here.

"Yeah, well, it ain't all it's cracked up to be."

Dean figures, since only half of it's been eaten. "I know the feeling, trust me. And I can't believe I'm saying this, but . . . I can't wait to get my hands on one of Biggerson's burgers."

Bobby laughs so hard he struggles for air. Dean steps forward out of concern when a coughing fit starts, but the hunter waves him away and reaches over to grab a Styrofoam cup by the food tray. He takes a long drink through the straw before talking again.

"Where's Sam?"

And there it is—the golden question. Dean fidgets a little, shifts his weight from foot to foot, trying to figure out how to tell Bobby he'd just screwed everything up by yelling at his brother. All for not keeping their father figure company when that's _all_ Sam's been doing—reading books, magazines, even a copy of _The Grapes of Wrath_ some nurse insisted he check out, even though Sam had already admitted to reading it, _twice_—since they'd learned Bobby was in a coma.

Dean rubs a hand across the back of his neck and looks at the floor. "Well, uh, you know . . ."

But he doesn't have to finish. Because, at that moment, Bobby decides to pull out the arm he'd shoved under his pillow to get more comfortable.

In his open palm lies what can only be a hex bag.

* * *

><p>He turns off the faucet and brings his cupped hands to his face, letting the cool liquid glide down and over smooth skin. It feels good after his argument with Dean, even if the hand Sam had been dealt wasn't quite a fair one. Dean didn't really have any place to talk. Had Dean been the one to read every single book and magazine he could find to Bobby in the hopes he'd wake up? Had he been the one to ease up and talk about what had been causing all the suppressed guilt and anger? Sam wipes his face with a paper towel, thinking the fight could've been prevented if Dean had just <em>talked<em> about it beforehand.

Sam had noticed the cracked mirror when he'd entered the men's room, immediately knowing it hadn't happened by accident. Looking at it now sends a chill up his spine, and he digs his thumb into his hand, fighting the images of Hell and Lucifer. The memory of Dean disappearing into the restroom for three hours crossed his mind, and thought for a moment the man responsible had to be his brother, but there had been no sign of Dean's hand being injured. Sure, Sam remembered Dean absently rubbing his fist for the last couple of hours, but he'd figured Dean was just worried Bobby might lapse back into a coma.

Sam spies a twenty dollar bill poking up behind the sink, clearly stuffed between the back of the sink and wall by someone who didn't want or care about it in front of him. He leans forward to pick it up—thinking it might cover part of the damages cost to replace the thing he's sure Dean somehow broke, or maybe even go toward Bobby's medical bills—when he sees the streak of red. Sam lifts the broken mirror gently off the wall.

There, painted in what looks like fairly fresh blood, is an angel banishing sigil.

* * *

><p>"Dean?"<p>

His voice is low and tinged with confusion. Not because he doesn't know what he's holding, but because Dean looks real self–conscious all of a sudden, and his green eyes are studying anything _other_ than Bobby Singer.

If that's not a sign something's up, he doesn't know what is.

"You with me, son?" Bobby tries again.

Finally, Dean nods, then gestures to the hex bag in an attempt to appear casual. "I just thought—"

The door flies open, banging back hard and loud against the white wall. Sam is there, breathing fast, eyes wild with something between excitement and fear. He glances from Dean to Bobby and back again.

"I think I found something."


	6. Give Me A Sign

**A/N: A big hug and a steaming cup of hot chocolate goes out to mainegirlwrites for betaing this chapter. Thanks, girl! :) **

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.**___

**Give Me A Sign**

Bobby's gaze shifts from Dean to Sam and back again, attempting to comprehend the look his boys just silently exchanged. The news Sam brought to share for show–and–tell doesn't sink in right away, his brain still a little slow from his oh–so–tragic near–death experience, and Bobby has to repeat the words several times to himself before they make any lick of sense.

After such a speedy and full recovery, you'd think it'd be easier.

"Where?" Dean asks without hesitation, eyes now a perfect reflection of his little brother's. But Sam is already halfway out the door.

Must be one hell of a find.

Dean disappears in pursuit of Sam, leaving Bobby to glare accusingly at the Styrofoam cup, as if the thing itself is responsible for keeping him locked up in a confining hospital room. Really, if it were the graveyard shift, he might risk following them. But, as it isn't, and as dozens of nurses and doctors seem keen on checking in every five minutes, he knows it's pointless to try.

To be honest, he feels like a goddamn fish in a tank, on display for any and all to see.

* * *

><p>"<em>Don't you see it, Sammy<em>?"

He flinches at the deep tone that announces the presence of a taunting voice, even now. For a heartbeat, the devil takes the reins; laughter reverberates through his mind, banging around the inside of his skull and bouncing off the corners to push and shove and prod—

"_He isn't real. None of this is real._"

He wants this nightmare to end. Here, now. Forever. Because he can't take it, not like this. Not with Dean just two steps behind him. The _real_ Dean, his brother. The one who's always been there for him, taken care of him, protected him from the evil things in his closet, under his bed. The one who kept him human and alive.

Sam smirks. You're _not real_, he thinks. _If you were, you would have pulled me back to Hell by now instead of screwing with my head._

And by some miracle, Lucifer's voice fades away with the images of his time spent in the Pit.

"Uh, Sam? Dude, you with me here?"

Sam mentally shakes himself and looks over at Dean. "Yeah . . . sorry, I'm good." He tries to remember if Dean had been talking to him before. "Right, so—you were saying . . . ?"

Dean frowns slightly, but lets the strange behavior pass. Still, his eyes scan the hallways as they dodge doctors carrying clipboards and nurses pushing patients in wheelchairs. A huddle of men and women in white tend to a bleeding man on a stretcher, and the group shoots past the brothers in the opposite direction, shouting for others to clear a path. It freaks Dean out that the scene doesn't faze him. "Where is this damn thing, anyway? _What_ is it?"

In answer, Sam pushes the door to the men's room open and leads his brother to the spot. Dean's quick stride halts completely at the sight of the broken mirror hanging cracked and abused on the wall. He immediately tries to make his right hand cease to exist by shoving it deep into his pocket.

"Huh," he says, a small smile creeping onto his lips, "I wonder who could've done that?" Dean finds Sam is totally _not_ amused.

What Dean doesn't know is that Sam catches the small movement out of the corner of his eye. Or is he just imagining things? Maybe it didn't happen at all. Sam shakes his head, trying to clear it, to _focus_. Ever since the wall isolating those memories—the ones he'd so desperately wanted to keep locked away—collapsed, he has discovered even little things, like remembering what he had for lunch, leaves his head burning.

And, suddenly, he can't remember why the wall fell in the first place. Or what caused it.

All Sam knows is that it just, well . . . _did_.

Eyebrows scrunched together, he grabs the mirror to remove it, feeling off–balance and slightly disoriented.

Hazel eyes take in the sight of smeared blood on the wall. Of course, no normal person would think to look behind a broken mirror for an angel banishing sigil. Dean isn't even sure a hunter would. But, truth be told, he's never been a normal hunter, let alone _normal_. Because nothing about a hunter's life screams normal.

Dean is just about to ask how in hell Sam found the sigil when a sharp pain rips through his head. The world blurs to a single as he staggers into the sink, one hand gripping it tight for support, the other trying to keep his head in one piece.

"Dean? _Dean_!"

His skull feels as if it's being ripped in two by someone with both the rage and power of Superman. No, scratch that, it's gotta be Hulk. Or maybe his head is about to explode. He knows for sure _this_ ain't normal. For one, it's never happened before. _Still hurts like a mother, though._

"Dean? Talk to me, man!"

He opens his mouth to tell Sam to quit worrying, to stop screaming because some doctor will burst through the door and see the sigil. But he only ends up emitting a yell of pure agony as another wave of pain washes through, this time down to the very tips of his toes. His head's on fire, white light dances across his vision, and he can feel himself slipping, losing the flimsy hold on consciousness. . . .

The last thing he hears before darkness claims him is Sam.

"Hold on, Dean, just hold on. I've got you."

* * *

><p><em>The walls of the barn are covered in symbols and sigils and everything that they could find from Bobby's book. They jump out at him like a million flashing neon signs in the night, the black paint a stark outline against a white background.<em>

_Dean continues to turn the knife in circles with the tip of the blade pressed into the wooden table. Turns out whatever pulled him out of Hell took a vacation, hopped on plane headed for New Mexico. Obviously, this thing isn't bound to show up anytime soon. Sighing impatiently, he looks to the older hunter._

_"You sure you did the ritual right?"_

_Bobby tilts his head and gives him a pointed look that clearly says, "You really wanna go there, boy?"_

_He chucks the knife across the table, knowing it's probably useless now anyway. "Sorry," Dean grunts. "Touchy, touchy, huh?" He rubs a hand over his face while Bobby just sits there and wishes they could wrap this whole thing up and go back to his place. At least there he can do something a little more useful. Have a drink, get in a few hours' sleep, take a year–long break. . . ._

_They instinctively get to their feet and take up the loaded guns when the metal roof begins to shake. Dean looks around, expecting, well . . . _something. _But there's nothing._

_"Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind," he tells Bobby._

_Then, right on cue, the light above their head shatters into a thousand pieces. Then another, and another, and another. Like some freaky chain reaction. Glass and sparks rain down around them as the door swings open on its own. A dark shadow crosses the threshold, and a figure that looks strikingly human steps into view, confident in its deliberate stride toward them. The creature doesn't flinch or falter at the exploding lights or even when rock salt rounds pierce its chest. The being appears rather indifferent to the symbols on the walls, somehow knowing they are harmless._

_Dean and Bobby abandon the guns when they realize how powerful this thing has to be. Dean picks up Ruby's knife, hiding it carefully behind his back and hopes it's just some weird demon–spawn with a death wish._

_The guy is dressed like a tax accountant, but it's clear it isn't human. It moves as if circling prey from above to stand in front of him, a smooth face with no eyes, nose, or mouth._

_"Who are you?" Dean demands._

_Replying in a voice he can only describe as robotic, the creature says, "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition." With no visible mouth, it sounds as if the voice might be emanating from just about anywhere._

_Huh. Weird. "Yeah," Dean nearly growls, getting a decent grip on the knife, "Thanks for that."_

_The blade sinks sickeningly into the flesh all the way up to the hilt. While Dean waits for a reasonable reaction to the wound, the being simply removes the knife, clearly unfazed and unharmed. The weapon clatters to the floor, useless._

_Bobby steps up to the plate and takes a nice swing at their summoned visitor with an iron crowbar, only the tax accountant is ready and blocks the attack without looking (well, he can't be sure, but the being doesn't turn its head), hardly using a shred of exertion. Two fingers to the forehead and Bobby Singer slumps to the ground, rendered unconscious._

_Which leaves Dean on his own._

_The creature speaks again, in the same deep, gravelly tone. "We need to talk, Dean." The head is cast downward at Bobby. When the creatures looks back up at him, two icy blue eyes have abruptly appeared on the pale face. They swirl strangely, hypnotizing him with only a glance. "Alone."_

* * *

><p><em>"Just—stay the hell away, all right? Lose my number. And ignore my last message."<em>

Castiel finally flips the phone shut after listening to Dean's messages on constant repeat, trying to determine what had caused such a drastic change in tones. In all honesty, he couldn't decide which was more painful—the former or the latter.

But it doesn't matter now. He'd made his choice, given Sam, Bobby, _and_ Dean the chance to move on without him. And after watching them deal with far less troubles, he came to the conclusion he had made the right choice, done the right thing. Even if it hadn't been the most desirable option.

He wondered if it made any difference that he'd finally made things right the second time around, after he'd been given a _handful_ of second chances.

He still doesn't understand, after all the trials and tribulations. At least . . . not completely.

How could he sacrifice everything—his faith, his brothers, his _life_—for one being, one insignificant mortal man who acted on pure and selfish impulse, who had practically destroyed the world several times over, who had left one mess after another for someone else to tend to? Why did he have to lose all he had strived for, be doomed to protect the most suicidal, reckless, and cursed human to ever walk the earth? Why hadn't he returned to Heaven and remained in his true place when he had the perfect opportunity to do so?

Questions with answers he'd been searching for. And could not find.

He knew he didn't deserve it. None of this. Not to see them, not to even be here. Not after all he'd done to them, intentionally or not. Perhaps Dean's message rings with a sort of truth.

Even if he were to return, there would be no guarantee of forgiveness. From any of them. There would undoubtedly be anger, mistrust, rejection. Castiel did not expect Dean to welcome him back with open arms. His angry words in the last message made him certain, if only of one thing.

There is sudden movement in the hall, and through the eyes of Claire Novak he sees them. Sam in the lead, Dean following close behind, speaking rapidly to his younger sibling, who appears distracted. A wounded man on a stretcher surrounded by several physicians blocks his view momentarily. Then, once they enter the restroom, he stands.

He hesitates before tossing the cell phone into a rather full trash can and falls into step behind them.

* * *

><p>The first thing Dean becomes fully aware of is an annoying throbbing right above his eyebrow, suggesting the arrival of a nasty headache. Although, everything else feels fine at the moment besides his head, or at least he <em>thinks<em> so. Kinda hard to tell when you're so stiff from lying immobile for a while.

He opens his eyes and quickly covers most of his face by burying it in one arm. "Dammit, Sam, turn off the lights," Dean groans into the crook of his arm.

Sam smiles in relief and catches Bobby's eye. "Yeah, I think he's good."

Dean removes his arm and opens his eyes more slowly this time, and instead of light stabbing his vision, the enormous form of an annoying little brother progressively comes into focus. More annoying than the fading headache.

"Dude, you look like hell," Sam says, barely suppressing a chuckle.

Dean realizes he's lying down and attempts to sit up. "Shut up, Sam."

White sheets. _Clean_ sheets. So that rules out being at the motel. Dean frowns. Then where—?

Seeing the expression on his older brother's face, Sam puts out both hands to keep Dean from flipping out. "It's okay, man. You just passed out in the men's room. You're here in the hospital with Bobby and me." He doesn't move for a few seconds, waiting for a delayed reaction.

But Dean just sits up a little in the hospital bed and rubs at his eyes. Looks over at Bobby sitting on the bed next to his, who says, "Hey there, Sleeping Beauty."

Dean shakes his head. "I don't _pass out_," he assures. "Or faint, just so we're clear on that. So are you going to tell me what the hell _really_ happened, or am I gonna sit here in the dark forever?"

Sam looks nervously at the floor, the walls, Bobby. Whatever he thought would happen, he hadn't predicted denial right off the bat. "Um, well . . . that's basically what happened, Dean. No other way to put it, really."

Dean locks eyes with his brother and decides he must be telling the truth. He sighs and closes his eyes again. "Did I hit my head by chance?"

Dean doesn't hear a smile in Sam's voice this time. "Actually, yeah. Do you remember anything?"

Thinking hard, he tries to remember how he ended up in the men's room with Sam, of all places. There had been light, lots of it. Blinding light. Red streaks on the wall that must have been blood. And a man—a man dressed in a business suit and overcoat.

Dean frowns again. "Was there someone else with us?"

Sam shakes his head, confused. "No. Why?"

"Huh, must've been a dream, I guess." He opens his eyes to see Sam looking down at a cell phone. _Dean's_ cell phone. "Hey, what're you—?"

"Relax, dude," Sam says, turning the phone so Dean can see the picture he'd been looking at. "This was the sigil I showed you before you . . . blacked out. Look familiar?"

Dean's eyes widen. "What's an angel banishing sigil doing in the men's room?"

"That's what we were trying to find out," Sam replies, about to put the phone back in his jacket pocket.

"Hold on, let me see that picture again."

Sam hands the phone back to Dean, wondering if he might have hit his head harder than Sam originally thought.

On the floor underneath the sigil and next to the sink, a broken mirror sat leaning against the wall. That's when he suddenly remembers _he_ broke that mirror and that Sam has no knowledge of the incident. And that his hand had magically been healed only hours after slyly hiding it from his little brother.

Deciding he'll send the picture to Sam on his _own_ damn phone, Dean goes to his very short list of contacts. Only, as he's scrolling down, there's one, listed right after Bobby, that he doesn't ever remember being there before.

For the life of him, Dean Winchester has no idea who "Cas" is.

* * *

><p><strong>Anyone else think of the song Calling All Angels by Train while reading this?<strong>


	7. Echo

**A/N: I've fallen in love with the song Echo by Jason Walker, which inspired the title for this chapter. :) Thanks again to the wonderful mainegirlwrites for betaing! **

_**Disclaimer: Just playing in the sandbox again. What can I say? It's fun.**_

**Echo**

_It's happened before. And now it's happening again._

_Dean darts like a madman from room to room, seeing people, seeing their outlines and forms, but not their faces—none of them are the one he's looking for. He would know it in a heartbeat; he didn't have to look at the strangers longer than that. His legs seem to be moving too fast, faster than the rest of his body, his mind. The men's room is strangely empty and eerily quiet, though he hardly takes the time to notice. Because what he simply doesn't have is _time_. And the little he has is running out._

_The side door on the van is open when Dean reaches it, but the vehicle itself is hollow and bears no sign of Sam. But he's sure Sam was here. _

_Doors don't open by themselves._

_With shaking hands, he takes the ring of keys out of his pocket. They jingle loudly as he moves for the driver's seat. _

_Dean's assailant materializes out of thin air and knocks him clean to the ground, unconscious._

* * *

><p>Sam notices his brother's confusion by the furrowed brow and casual way Dean rids his face of all emotion, smoothing it out into a calm, indifferent mask. One Sam has seen far too many times, so much he can't even remember when Dean <em>hasn't<em> worn the mask that has become a well–known facial expression. Really, he might have left well enough alone if it wasn't for the tensing of Dean's jaw.

"What?"

Dean shakes his head slightly. "Nothing. Just got one hell of a headache, that's all."

Sam shifts his weight from his right leg to his left once, trying to keep anger from bubbling up and spilling over. "You sure about that, Dean?"

His head snaps up instinctively at that. Was he _sure_? How many times did Dean have to say he was _fine_ for Sam to actually believe him? Did he have to scream until his vocal cords gave out and he became a mute? Dean's jaw clenches so tight his vision blurs, and he lets it go slack when he remembers his head's not in the best of shape. But the rooms still spins in a kaleidoscope of colors, and he doesn't know he's falling until a pair of strong hands prevents him from hitting the floor and flattening out like a pancake.

"Better take it easy there, Bucko."

Dean fights to make Bobby's six heads back into one after Sam rights him back on the bed. Honestly, in the heat of the moment, Dean had completely forgotten the older hunter had been sitting there the whole time, a witness to their . . . disagreement.

Awkward.

Dean pushes the hand on his shoulder away impatiently, the anger gradually dissipating. Tired. He was so tired. But he couldn't rest, not now, not until they'd finished the job, figured out a way to get rid of those damn Leviathans.

"Listen, we're wasting time here," he says to both Sam and Bobby. "I don't know who or what put that sigil up on the wall, but someone's gotta be looking after us, right? As far as we know, there aren't even any other hunters here. Especially not ones with a history of pissing off angels."

Sam's quirks an eyebrow. "You think an angel might be protecting us?" His shoulders rise. "From what?"

Dean shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe _other angels_?"

"What angel would risk losin' their mojo for hunters like us?" Bobby asks.

"One we ought to know, don't you think? I mean, we can't just sit around here waiting for Dick Roman to walk through the door, guns blazin'. He's got a whole _army_ of those things running loose out there. We're the only ones who have any chance of takin' 'em down."

Sam sees the acceptance of what they have to do in Bobby's eyes, and Sam knows he wants to say something, but Bobby looks at the floor, defeated before ever putting up a fight.

Sam decides to make Dean see sense. "So what you're saying is we go up against the Leviathans _here_? In a _hospital_? Okay, you stay here and work on your suicidal plan, and I'll go get the syringes. Maybe if we stab the sons–of–bitches enough times, they'll—"

Dean puts up a hand. "Okay, Sam, _we get it_, all right?" He sighs. "Look, I don't think we should have some big ass showdown here, I'm just sayin' we need to figure out how to _kill_ them first before we do anything."

Sam turns away so Dean doesn't see him roll his eyes.

Bobby reaches into his jacket and takes out a flask, from which he takes a long pull. "Well, I think I know a place we could start."

At that, Sam turns back to arch both eyebrows at the older hunter.

"One o' you boys got a piece of paper?"

Ready for anything, Sam produces a crumbled bit of paper and a pen.

Both Winchester brothers watch curiously as Bobby accepts the offerings and begins to scribble furiously across the surface. The pen makes an annoying scratching sound a few times, indicating Bobby crossed some things out. At one point, their father figure huffs a frustrated sigh and just about gives up when his eyes go suddenly wide. At the very bottom of the paper, he repeatedly outlines whatever he finally decided to write down.

"Well?" Dean asks a few seconds later, bringing the hunter back to earth.

In response, Bobby holds up the scrap piece of paper. Six digits are written in a furious hand:

_454895._

* * *

><p><em>The water is still when he reaches it, a smooth and uniform essence. Castiel, now free from the confines of any vessel, allows his form to expand, regain its familiar shape. For a moment in time, he becomes one with his surroundings.<em>

_But he did not come here for this sole purpose._

_Lowering his form to the water's edge, Castiel focuses all energy to his core, holding his strength, controlling it. He maintains a solid grip on the sphere of energy as he summons, piece by piece, atom by atom, the remains of his previous vessel, left to dissolve at the bottom of the reservoir._

_The process proceeds agonizingly slow, and the angel's thoughts drift to Claire. Returning her to her mother had been the right thing to do, as well as restoring the memories of her relatives, who had briefly forgotten Claire in her absence. Castiel had whispered to her in dreams when he found he had appeared, alive and unharmed, back on earth. Promising he would find her father and restore him was almost too simple, for he never intended to fulfill the vow. Claire would never see him again. He had erased her entire family's memories of Jimmy Novak. _

_This left the human to be restored properly by Castiel for later use._

_He knew tampering with fate was a dangerous game to play—he had been a piece in that same game not so long ago. Though he did know that if anyone deserved a better life, it was Claire Novak. And by sending her home, Castiel hoped he had given her just that._

* * *

><p>"When, exactly, were you planning on telling us?"<p>

Sam tries to keep any accusatory tones from staining his voice, but Bobby's expression implies the older hunter is expecting some sort of blame to fall on his shoulders.

Bobby glances at Dean, who has his arms crossed and is leaning back against his pillow, face hardened, ready and waiting for some fatal blow. "Dean's right," he says finally. "Until we know how to kill those sons–of–bitches, there ain't a whole lot we can do. Besides, how am I supposed to tell you boys anything if you keep winding up in the ER? We've had enough problems without your two cents, don't ya think?"

"You at least could've told us about the field in Wisconsin," Dean points out. "I mean, forget the numbers. We might've been able to set up cameras by now and keep watch over the place."

Though Bobby Singer would never say it, that's exactly what he _didn't_ want—the idea of Sam and Dean throwing their lives out the window like they mean nothing has never been something that has settled well with him. Not even now when they're up against monsters that bleed black goo and refuse to die. Yes, Bobby could have told them before, but it meant their lives were on the line for him. _Again._ And maybe he was tired of everyone acting reckless and careless because of something that happens to _him_.

"Doesn't matter. We're stuck here till you're better, kid," Bobby mumbles to Dean.

"I'm fine."

"Like _hell_ you are," Sam says, jumping in. "You nearly fell off the bed just now, and you've got about as much chance of getting out of here as Ryan Seacrest would if—"

Dean sits up, glaring daggers at his brother. "_Sam_—" he starts.

"_Dean_."

Bobby shakes his head, having heard enough bickering for one day. He mutters something about food and leaves the room before his ears start to bleed.

Dean exhales frustratingly and looks to Sam. "Fine. You wanna be useful? Go get me some real food and a change of clothes from the motel."

Sam grinds his teeth all the way to the exit, trying not to think of what a royal pain–in–the–ass his older sibling is. He's out the door, fuming and heading for the van, when he notices the dark car parked just a few feet to his right.

Before he can run, a fist connects hard and fast with his face, then another. Sam's nose and forehead are gushing blood, the red fluid blurring his vision as they drag him away from the hospital.

* * *

><p><em>Castiel sets Dean down gently in the hospital bed before disappearing like a wisp of smoke into the air. The angel knows Sam has been taken, knows Dean will look until he finds his brother, regardless of any cost.<em>

_He must be the one to find Sam Winchester._

_Castiel begins his search in the parking lot of the hospital, hoping to find some sort of evidence that will point him down the correct path. When he finds none, he wings away, praying Bobby will keep Dean safe and that he himself can find Sam alive._


	8. Deeper

**A/N: Been waiting to write this part in the story for a while now. I hope everyone enjoys it! :D Thanks again to my wonderful beta, mainegirlwrites. **

_**Disclaimer: Never have and probably never will own SPN.**_

_And I try so hard_

_But I can't wake up_

_I'm speeding up the meter and the sirens echo on_

_And it's all too wrong_

_But I can't let go_

_I'm falling even deeper, but it's better than before_

(Deeper, James Durbin)

**Deeper**

He doesn't know how long it is before he finally comes to—probably an hour or so. He struggles to stand up, but can't move anything; not his hands, feet, legs, arms . . . nothing at all. Furiously blinking sleep from his eyes, Sam realizes total darkness encompasses him, pressing in on and suffocating him from every side. He pulls at the restraints keeping him tied to a chair, trying to push down the rising panic when he finds he is unsuccessful and very much trapped in unfamiliar territory.

"Dean?" he calls, hoping to receive an answer, to wake up and find this is all a dream. "Bobby?"

From the blackness comes a laugh so dark, so . . . _evil_, Sam thinks for a heartbeat Lucifer is back and hungry for torture. Nearby, he can hear something dripping loudly to the floor that he can't see, and it takes an enormous amount of calm to keep him from flipping the hell out.

"Who are you?" he demands. The laughing continues, snaking through his mind, making it hard to think, hard to stay sane. "_What do you want?_" Sam shouts, attempting to kick out blindly in the dark.

"_You already know, don't you, Sammy?_" says a voice he would know anywhere.

"_After everything I've done to keep you alive, and this is how you repay me?_" Something hard as a rock slams into the side of Sam's face. "_After all I've sacrificed for you petty Winchesters?_"

Sam knows both voices are impossible. Neither of their owners would tie him to a chair and torture him for Lucifer. Or anyone. But this isn't his party anymore, and the devil can do with him as he likes . . . because, this time, he really can't fight back, even if he wanted to.

_This isn't real, _Sam thinks._ Not real, not real . . . _

"Oh, I assure you it is, little Sammy," Lucifer drawls into his ear. "No matter what you think, you can never escape me, Sam. You'll always be in Hell with me, no Dean or Bobby or Castiel to save you. You and I? We're a _team_." Sam flinches away from the hand that suddenly rests on his shoulder. "And, win or lose, you're stuck here. _Forever_."

"_And there's nothing you can do about it_," his brother's voice adds. Sam hears the smile in his voice, and shudders violently, becoming increasingly cold. As if the voices themselves control the temperature of the room.

"_One by one, you will watch us die_," the dead angel whispers darkly into his other ear. "_Again and again until you learn your place._"

Sam senses Lucifer's hand next to his face and turns to bite hard into it. The devil releases a hiss of pain, yanking his hand away. Footsteps echo around the room, confusing Sam to no end. How many people could Lucifer have brought back from the dead to haunt him?

"No," Sam growls, shutting his eyes despite being encased in utter darkness. "I _won't_."

"Very well."

Light pierces his closed lids, and curiosity gets the better of him—he opens his eyes.

Standing before him are the two men whose voices taunted him. Dean. Cas, complete with his trench coat. Both so real, down to the last detail, smiling the devil's smile down at Sam; eyes blacker and deeper than Hell itself.

The footsteps stop, Lucifer standing between Dean and Cas, wearing an identical smirk. "Let the games begin."

* * *

><p>When Dean wakes up back in the hospital bed, all alone in his room—<em>Bobby's<em> room—he knows something's wrong.

_Where's Sam? _

Sammy. Gone. He had been in the parking lot, searching the van, for a sign Sam had been there—

And then . . . what? How had he gotten back here? _Where the hell is Bobby?_

"Bobby . . ." Dean scrambles out of the bed and to the door, pushing the handle down repeatedly to find it locked. Even throwing his shoulder into it, the door won't budge. He pounds hard once on the door with a fist. "Bobby!"

The hallway is dark, not a soul in sight. _Of course_, he thinks, wanting to hit himself in the face. _It's the graveyard shift._

But he wants to kick down the door more. He steps back to give it a try, and he hits the mark, but ends up experiencing a sharp pain that travels up the back of his leg. He swears loudly, putting all his weight on the other leg. _I'm getting too old for this shit._

Pushing down the welling panic, Dean whips out his phone and calls Bobby's cell. No answer. Calls Sam—same thing. Dean calls the only other person who might be able to help him in his freaked out state.

To his surprise, another phone in the room starts ringing seconds after he presses talk. Dean looks around, hope flaring in his chest, scanning the deserted area. Finally, he pinpoints where the ringing is coming from and hobbles over to a pile of trash bags someone obviously just carelessly dumped there.

_Great hospital staff they have here_, he thinks sarcastically.

Dumpster diving has never been one of Dean's favorite pastimes; Sam always had his nerdy laptop, and he had the Impala to work on. Dean doesn't put sifting through trash as the first thing on his Things–To–Do–When–You're–Bored list. The only time he would ever even consider doing it would be, well . . . _now_.

The ringing stops just as he finds the phone, sitting innocently inside an empty McDonald's hamburger container. He searches as fast as he can through the phone, looking for anything that ties "Cas" to him. In the contacts, Dean, Sam, and Bobby are all listed separately. The phone holds no videos, just records of the last time the phone had received a call—about thirty seconds ago—and the most recent calls made. Dean is shocked to see his name is at the top of that list, shortly followed by Sam, then Bobby.

He skips ahead to the photos, where he finds a few of himself, Bobby, and Sam. Then he comes to the last one and just about drops the phone.

It's a serious–looking guy in a trench coat and suit.

* * *

><p>Sam's gaze shifts from Dean to Cas to Lucifer, dreading the coming moments. He fails to remain calm, his breathing hard and fast, his face draining of all color. Sam digs his fingernails into the arms of the chair, raking them back and forth, telling himself it has to be a dream, that it's <em>not real<em>.

But he has a bad feeling it is.

"Dean, don't do this—" Sam starts.

"Oh, he won't listen to _you_," Lucifer cuts in. "Neither will Castiel here. But don' t you worry, Sammy, they can't harm you. Just sit back and enjoy the show!" The devil snaps his fingers and vanishes like smoke.

Dean and Castiel immediately turn on each other.

"What the hell were you thinking, Cas?" Dean shouts. "Knocking down Sam's wall, swallowing those souls? Being _God_? I never wanted to believe you'd turn on us, man, but I guess I was wrong. You're a _child_, and you'll never be anything else."

"All I've done is for _you_, Dean," Castiel counters. "I have saved you and your brother from yourselves countless times, more than I care to recall. Never have I asked for your thanks. Never have I asked for your assistance—and the _one time_ I ask for help, you turn away. Perhaps if you had stood behind me, your brother's wall would never have been broken—"

Dean snaps and lunges for Castiel, striking him clean across the face—almost too easily in Sam's mind. The angel falls to the ground, Dean pinning him down and continuing to pound his face until it is covered with blood, unrecognizable. Sam yells until he turns blue for Dean to stop, but his brother doesn't listen. Sam winces when Dean's final blow knocks Cas unconscious. Pulling a long hunting knife from his belt, Sam watches in horror as Dean attacks without hesitation.

Castiel's head comes to rest at Sam's feet.

* * *

><p>A knock on the door makes him jump.<p>

"Dean?" Bobby calls from the other side of the glass, peering in.

Dean has never been so relieved to hear the voice of his father figure. He rushes to the door. "It's locked," he says, pointing to the handle, "from the outside."

Bobby fiddles with the door handle for a few moments, but stands back up with a defeated look.

Then Dean holds up an index finger to show Bobby he has an idea and takes off his flannel shirt, wrapping it around his right hand. He gestures for the older hunter to stand back and rams his hand through the glass on the door without waiting for Bobby's approval.

"What the hell does _that_ do?"

Dean tosses Bobby the shirt through the opening, knocking a few pieces of glass still in place to the floor with his booted foot. "This," he says, squeezing himself through the slim opening, which proves a lot less difficult than unlocking the door. He smiles as glass crunches underfoot. "Like magic."

Bobby looks back into the room Dean had just smashed his way out of. "Where's Sam?"

"I tried calling you, but I got voicemail. Sam's missing," Dean says in a rush.

"_What_?" Bobby looks incredulous. "How? I thought he was with you!"

"He was, but—" Dean stops, staring at Bobby. "Where've you been all this time, anyway?"

Bobby clears his throat and looks away. "I, uh . . . fell asleep."

Dean runs a hand over his face. "Awesome." He sighs. "Look, Sam's gone, and I really don't have time to explain. We've gotta go, _now_."

"Okay, well, I'd say we got about ten seconds before someone comes along and sees us," Bobby observes, looking up and down the empty hallway. Loud, clipping footsteps drift toward them from the left. "So let's get the hell out of here."

Dean turns right, heading towards the parking lot. "Not gonna argue on that front."

* * *

><p>Sam can't even scream before the head disappears. When he looks back up, Dean and Castiel have resumed their places, alive and whole.<p>

"You should have killed your brother when you had the chance, Dean," the angel growls, his hand now crushing Dean's throat against one wall. "He drank demon blood, making him less and less human with each consumption. And you _let him_. You watched, detached, as he became the very thing your father told you he would one day become. The thing you would have to _kill_. Yet you let him live."

Dean pries at the Castiel's hands, struggling for air. He mouths words Sam can't make out. Sam yells again, knowing it's useless, but tries to get the angel's attention. _It's me you want, not him! _his conscience screams. For all the good it does him, a brick wall might as well have separated the pair from Sam.

"And, for that," Cas continues, ignoring both Sam's cries and Dean's struggles, "there is no forgiveness."

Sam wants to retreat inside himself, away from the world and its horrors, but he can't. Dean, having turned nearly every color imaginable, suddenly slides down the wall to the cold ground, dead.

"NO!" Sam screams. "_Dean_!"

It's several moments of seeing his brother slumped over on the floor, acknowledging the lifeless body, before Sam realizes Dean really is gone. Tears stain his face, wetting his shirt. He doesn't notice Castiel is right in front of him until the angel who's supposed to be dead speaks.

"Dean deserved to die."

Sam meets the cool gaze of the angel, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so tight he thinks he might end up breaking them. Sam throws himself at Castiel while still tied to the chair, fury taking him over. "I'm gonna kill you," he mutters angrily.

The angel smiles. "He let you live while you deserved his fate."

"Shut UP!" Sam yells. His mind barely registers the loud dripping sound in the background. He wonders momentarily if it ever stopped.

"You're going to die, Sam Winchester," Castiel says. Stepping back, the angel morphs into someone else. "And there's nothing your precious brother can do to stop it," the figure says, this time in the voice of Dick Roman.

"No." Sam uses all his strength, grunting as he attempts to escape yet again. "No! They'll find me, they'll know where—"

Dick Roman leans against the wall casually. He chuckles. "You really think it's that simple, don't you? And they told me you were _smart_."

Sam looks over to the Leviathans that had starred as Dean and Lucifer in the horror fest they'd put on especially for him. They stop right in front of Sam. The dripping noise becomes louder, and he looks down. A growing pool of red liquid stains the ground next to the chair. Blood . . . _his_ blood.

"That was actually quite . . . _fun_, don't you think?" Dick asks the other Leviathans. They smile darkly in response, one even laughing.

The Leviathans are so preoccupied with their success at freaking Sam out that they don't notice someone has arrived at the door to Sam's right. As if a grenade has exploded, the door flies off its hinges, arching high over his head to high–five the opposite wall. In the large gaping hole where the door had previously resided, a dark shape is visible. In the few seconds it takes the dust to clear, Sam's spirits soar. Though he doesn't remember Dean ever having superpowers.

In the doorway stands—in baggy clothes and definitely _not_ his trench coat—Castiel. Or, at least, who Sam _hopes_ is the real Castiel.

The angel regards Sam as if they were enjoying a picnic in the middle of a forest on a sunny afternoon: "What did I miss?"


	9. Heads or Tails

**A/N: So it's been a little over a year. Everything's been super crazy for me, but now I've got all summer to bring this story to a close. As I was writing this chapter, I remembered how much I loved writing it before it went on hiatus. My love for Supernatural has not ceased, and I sincerely apologize for being absent. I hope you guys will still give this story a chance. **

_**Disclaimer: I've got sand in my shoes . . . **_

_So I'll say why don't you and I get together and take on the world  
>and be together forever<br>Heads we will and tails we'll try again  
>So I say why don't you and I get together, fly to the moon<br>and straight on to heaven  
>Cause without you they're never gonna let me in<em>

_(Why Don't You and I, Santana)_

**Head or Tails**

The only thing Sam Winchester can hear is the sound of his own blood dripping to the floor.

He's not sure _how_ or _when_ they sliced up his back or _why_ the action was even deemed necessary, as if the torture—watching his brother and a once–dead angel brutally murder each other—wasn't enough already. Didn't they want him conscious? Alive and awake and alert and _freaking the hell out_ over their little horror show? It made sense in a twisted sort of way, but Sam's not really sure how he understands because, glancing down, he sees the growing pool of red at his feet. He's lost blood, and a lot of it. Sam's hands ball into fists without his permission, heavy lids threatening to fall closed over flaring hazel eyes, Dick Roman and his two stooges mocking him somewhere far, far away. . . .

Then the wall explodes.

And there stands, dressed in _jeans_ and a _flannel shirt_, is Castiel.

_Am I dead? _ Sam thinks, almost hopes. Because it would make more sense if he was. If Lucifer was taunting him over his shoulder, if he was dreaming, if he was higher than a kite, it would _make sense_. Because none of it would be real.

Except it is.

So _nothing_ makes sense.

Dick Roman turns to face the new arrival with an overwhelming air of calm, confidence radiating off his vessel's pale skin like UV rays from the sun. It's blinding and threatening and powerful. The two Leviathans instantly flank Roman, serving as his body guards, though when he addresses the angel in the doorway with a smile and warm, welcoming gestures, Sam sees right through the charade. He can see the roaring anger fighting to break free in Dick Roman's eyes, to reach out and strangle Castiel where he stands. He can hear the edge in his voice.

"Ah, Castiel," Dick intones, pointing a finger in his direction. "Just the angel I wanted to see."

The angel detects the lack of enthusiasm, but cuts to the chase. "Release Sam Winchester immediately."

Dick Roman cocks an eyebrow and spreads his arms wide as if he owns the world and nothing can touch him. "Or what?" he asks. "You'll kill me?"

In response, Castiel reaches into his back pocket to reveal a syringe filled with clear liquid. He extends it, showcasing the object in his palm for all three Leviathans to see, but they just laugh at him. "I'm disappointed, Cassy," he pouts. "You haven't quite done your homework, have you? In case you didn't know"—Dick gestures to the only three Leviathans in the room—"we can't die."

Sam frowns when the thin, serious line of the angel's mouth morphs into a devious smile. The Leviathans cackle away, not worried in the slightest.

Of course, what they don't know _will _kill them.

"Go on, angel," Dick taunts, offering one of his body guard's arms. "Take your best shot with that little water gun of yours."

Castiel plunges the syringe into the Leviathan's vessel, just at the top of the forearm. The angel blinks and the water goes cloudy just before he injects the liquid. All of it.

The effect is immediate—the body guard collapses to the ground, convulsing wildly, screaming in pain, for help. Steam pours from the vessel's mouth, and Sam's own mouth falls open as the last puzzle piece falls into place and he _understands_.

Dick Roman glances in horror from the syringe to Castiel, taking an involuntary step backward, pushing his second body guard in front of him. The angel blinks again and the syringe refills with the same expensive cleaning product containing sodium borate. He catches the second Leviathan in the chest and quickly forces the plunger down. The creature follows the first to the floor, writhing in agony, burning to death from the inside out as the liquid courses through his veins, spreading throughout his entire body.

But Castiel pays those details no mind, having already lunged for Dick Roman, who made a move to attack Sam. The angel dives and grabs Dick Roman's ankle, yanking him backward across the concrete floor. Castiel raises his right hand in preparation to stab the Leviathan and inject the poison, but as he strikes, Roman catches his wrist, preventing the syringe from entering his neck.

The witty, smug smirk returns.

"You honestly think you can defeat me, Castiel? With household cleaner?" He laughs once. "I'd like to see you _try_."

The angel frowns. "I do not believe this will kill you," he admits, much to the surprise of one Dick Roman. Castiel uses the distraction to free his right wrist and pierce the Leviathan's jugular. "But it is a fairly strong dose." He empties the syringe.

And Dick Roman burns.

Castiel races to Sam, cutting him free with his angel blade. Two fingers to the forehead fixes his back, restores his vision, clears the fogginess of his brain. Sam is ushered from the abandoned building, and his stomach does a little flip as his feet leave the ground.

* * *

><p>Dean and Bobby make their way back to the ghetto van under the cover of darkness, both cell phones tucked safely away in Dean's jacket. The moon is absent, Dean notices, but the tiny glowing dots of light in the sky seem to be winking at him, as if they know his secrets. He brushes off the strange feeling and climbs up into the van, Bobby taking the passenger seat.<p>

"Where'd you see him last?"

Dean ignores the question, shoving the cell phone he found into Bobby's hands. "Tell me you know who that is," he pleads, having left the picture of the stranger in a tan trench coat up on the screen. "Please tell me I'm not going crazy here, Bobby."

There's several long minutes of staring and thinking and remembering as flashes of memory bombard Bobby Singer's brain, but it finally hits him. He knows this guy. "That stupid, spineless son of a bitch," Bobby growls angrily. "What was he thinkin'? This would all just blow over, that it would solve everything?"

Dean frowns. "You know him?"

Bobby turns on him. "It's _Cas_, ya idjit! Of course I know him!" He sighs, shaking his head, anger flying out the window. "It makes sense though, don't it? The hex bag, the angel banishing symbol—he was trying to protect us. Wiped our lives clean of him, even. But I guess his mojo ain't exactly what it used to be." The older hunter glances back at Dean, who's looking at Bobby like he has six heads again. He squints at the man he's come to call a son. "How hard did you hit your head?"

Dean raises a hand to his head, for once not trying to rip his hair out. "Hard enough, I guess." He starts up the van, speeds out of the parking lot, and heads toward the storage unit. If he's gonna die, it's gonna be in style. Forget the van.

The trunk of the Impala opens, and Dean spies the gas can, Bobby having finished with the short version of the story of Castiel, the angel. His brain starts heating up again, the familiar feeling of his head splitting in half returning. Dean crumples to the ground, his palms pressed to his ears in an attempt to block out a sudden unbearable ringing, knees hitting the concrete hard. Bobby has grabbed his arm, and Dean knows he's screaming at him, shaking him, but Dean can't respond. He succumbs to the darkness because he can do nothing else.

* * *

><p>"<em>Who are you?"<em>

"_Castiel."_

_He pictures Pamela's empty sockets, the blood dripping from the place her eyes used to be. "Yeah, I figured that much," he grinds out. "I mean, _what_ are you?"_

_The creature—so human, so normal—glances up to fix a pair serious eyes on him. "I'm an angel of the Lord."_

_It's that glare alone that makes Dean Winchester feel like he's being examined under a microscope. He doesn't like it, watching the "angel" carefully. He can see pity there too, swirling in the depths of the stranger's gaze. _Who is this guy? _Dean wonders. _And how the hell does he know my name? _He pushes himself to his feet, determined to get an answer, even if that means playing along. "Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing." _

_The guy shifts his weight, Dean eyeing him distrustfully. "This is your problem, Dean," he accuses in a deadpan voice. "You have no faith."_

_Three blinding flashes of light and thunderous noise allows Dean to see the shadows and outline of wings behind trench coat guy. He wants to glance around, find the lights and the secret behind this cheap little magic trick, but he knows he wouldn't find anything. He'd been over the whole barn with Bobby, spray painting symbols, loading the weapons. He wouldn't find anything. Yet this guy still disgusts him, but with good reason. "Some angel you are. You burned out that poor woman's eyes."_

_The angel hangs his head. "I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be overwhelming to humans, and so can my real voice, but you already knew that."_

* * *

><p>Dean opens his eyes to see Bobby staring down at him. The older hunter extends a hand and pulls Dean to his feet. "You alright, son?"<p>

A hand flies to his head again, making sure it's intact. "Can you maybe ask me that when my brain's _not_ on fire?" And his stomach's not doing so great either, rolling around uncontrollably, causing him to almost lose his dinner a few times. Dean swallows hard, leaning against his baby for support.

Bobby ignores the harshness of Dean's tone. "What did you see?"

Dean goes still.

"Don't lie to me, boy. You were mumbling." A few seconds of utter silence pass. "Was it Cas?"

"_And why would an angel rescue me from hell?"_

"_Good things do happen, Dean."_

"_Not in my experience."_

Dean closes his eyes in concentration, trying to drown out the voices. "Yeah," he admits. "And you were right, he is a stupid, spineless S.O.B."

Bobby shrugs. "You always said he was like family. Guess sacrificing himself for us makes him Honorary Winchester of the Year."

"This isn't funny, Bobby."

"You see me laughin'?"

They get in the Impala and Dean starts driving, Castiel still talking to him in his head the whole time, and he finds it hard to keep a conversation with Bobby about finding Sam. So he just drives and mentally calls out to the supposed angel who'd saved his life.

"_What's the matter? You don't think you deserve to be saved." _

"_Why'd you do it?" _

"_Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you."_

* * *

><p>The Impala follows a long bend in the road, then jets off into the night, down the straight path connected to it. Headlights cut through darkness yards and yards ahead. Dean Winchester is thankful for that when two figures appear on the narrow road in front of them. He stomps on the brake and yanks the wheel sideways to prevent from crashing into the suicidal idiots, his baby blocking both directions of traffic now, except there's no traffic at this time of night.<p>

"You okay?" Dean breathes, his heart still pounding out of his chest.

Bobby clears his throat and shifts a little in his seat, possibly to make sure everything still moves like it should. "Fine," he responds, eyes fixed on the two shadows approaching the car.

Dean climbs out of the driver's seat to confront them, hand on Ruby's knife tucked into the back of his belt just in case.

But he shouldn't have worried.

Because he doesn't even get the opportunity to speak.

Because Sam is rushing forward and wrapping him in a bear hug he has no choice but to respond to.

And just over Sam's shoulder, Dean spies a guy in a flannel shirt in jeans.

Dean's hold on Sam loosens.

Because that guy is an angel.

An angel named Castiel.


End file.
